Beyond the Beyond
by windstruck07
Summary: "Twenty seven and still single. Am I content? Yes. Do I long for more? Possibly."-because he would never admit he did . JackxElsa oneshot #6
1. Chapter 1

Dedicated to MischievousRose ^_^

This is actually partially based on a real life situation. Not all events or feelings of the characters are relevant to real life events though. There's no plot. It's just a test if I can write fluff or feels effectively. Flames are welcome ^^

...

"Are you okay?"

I find it very hard trying to read your mind.

They say that the quiet ones, the introverts, the melancholic folk, tended to look beyond the exterior and truly see the world as it is. They read between the lines, they brave the glitter or grime of the outside to see what goes beyond the beyond. They refuse to judge at first glance and try to understand and assess every nook and cranny for an explanation to how things are so, how things came to be. In their silence, they understand the hidden joys of the meek and humble, the anguished cry of the broken-hearted, and the child's face behind the soldier's mask…

I am deemed quiet by those who don't know who I am, only revealing the deeper pieces of myself to a few people whom I love and trust. Somehow, silence gave me the ability to look into the things beyond what I see. And every now and then, even in my silence, people come asking for help… even when I have nothing to give.

They come to me for problems, for advice on life, love, and all that sort. But what do I know about life when I'm only eighteen? What do I know about love if the only love I know is familial or sibling love? People trust me too much with the hidden pieces of their lives, but sometimes it's too much to

Sometimes I feel that they are over estimating me. I blame Anna for this.

"Look at me Elsa."

And then you came along.

The 4x6 room seemed too stuffy, although the only furniture that graced it was a vanity at one wall, a made bed, and an open window revealing the sun setting beneath a horizon of colorful sea. You were seated on the floor against the opposite wall while I was hugging myself while reclined against the edge of the bed, being the timid girl that I was. Normally, circumstances like these, being alone with a boy three years older than me inside his room would have been a very frightening experience. But you were not just any older boy… you were my like the big brother I never had… you were you.

Silence permeated as I consciously held onto my braid, biting my lips as lashes fluttered downward. I refuse to meet the warmth of your eyes that seem too loving, too warm, too trusting. Nor did I want to look upon the bronze glory of your hair, with the setting sun intruding through the room's open window. I frowned upon the soft orange and yellow rays while they casted lights on your skin as if you were the most beautiful gift ever brought to mankind. The soft fluffy warmth of the carpet under me felt hard and cold as my nervous heart beat in time with heavy breaths I've been trying to conceal. I contented myself to seeing you through my peripheral vision, watched as your brown leather jacket folded over a cream white shirt you bought from Penshoppe the other day. My breath caught when I caught you see me looking at your cocky half-smile, so smug and so alluring that it made my heart break every time. You tilt your head to the side, trying to catch my blue eyes with your own. I shy away, hiding the sorrow through an act of dignified sternness. But you know how I truly feel, and I don't know why. You know that my lower lip trembles when I am nervous, you know that I'm not okay when I avoid your piercing brown eyes.

Liking you too much is becoming a problem.

You aren't quiet. You are mischievous and friendly. You are too straight forward. You make a fool of yourself with Flynn, and you like to tease your poor best friend Hiccup. You drive Edmund insane, and you act like a son to jolly old Nicholas. People say you are a dense prick of a person, but you see beyond the beyond better than I do.

Liking you too much already is a problem.

"No."

You lean back against the wall, planting your hands on your knees as you crossed your legs in an Indian-sit. I sneak a peek and see your head tilted to the side, watching me and observing my every move. Darn you… darn you and your smug attitude.

"No as in you are not okay? Or no as in you don't want to look at me?" you ask.

I pulled my legs together and hugged my knees. I hid my eyes beneath my bangs, sinking into the warmth I made for myself. My baby blue sweater could not give me the warmth I longed for, and a war raged within myself fighting desire for the comfort of your touch, or the sweet accents of your comforting words. I wanted none of it…

My heart is a traitor.

"Both?" I mumbled.

"Okay?" I hear a smile in your voice. "Can you tell me what's wrong then?"

"Can't I just deal with this on my own for a while?" I whispered as my eyes dared to meet his. Wrong move.

His eyes twinkled, and that same loving warmth shone for me once again.

"You tried that already. It didn't work. Why try again?"

That was when the dam broke.

If you pass through the hall outside his room right now, you'd hear my voice sobbing like a weeping babe. It was embarrassing, it was ungraceful. But Jack… you understand me like the back of your hand.

Why is that?

Normally a guy would reach out and take the opportunity to pat me in the back or cuddle. The less decent ones would take advantage of the situation. But you don't do that.

Instead you just sit there from across the room like a spectator, watching me cry like the emotional brat that I was. Your shoulders are relaxed, your lips are pressed into a hard line, but your eyes reflect the sorrow that I was in. Why is that?

Liking you too much is a problem.

"I don't know…" I say through choked sobs. "I don't know."

"Elsa," your voice is gentle and soft but stern. "You've been through this before…"

"I know," I tell you.

"Yes you do," you say. "But you don't understand what you know."

I wipe my tears with the heel of my palm, blinking up to him in confusion. What do I don't understand Jack? What do I know that I don't understand?

"You know why there are people like North, or Sandy, or Tooth…" you laugh a little in mock when you say, "like Bunny. "It's because they understand what they know… or rather appreciate what they know. Well… appreciate is such a soft word." You straighten yourself and lean so that your face becomes slightly closer towards my direction. "They value what they know with their life. And that's why they go beyond the safe zone to let people know what they know."

"Know what?"

Jack gave me his rare genuine smiles.

"That they are loved." You tell me simply.

"How can I? When I've nothing to give?" I ask him, my eyes pleading for the answers.

You pause and think for a moment, and then you look at me and smile again.

"You know I have a job interview today, right?"

I nod.

"Don't feel guilty with what I'm about to tell you." You tell me. "I sacrificed my time, my money, my responsibility to my family, just to see how you're doing. How's that?"

I slumped my shoulders in guilt, but then you laugh.

"I'm just kidding Elsa." You smile. "But see, what I mean here is… the only key to your problem is to simply love. You don't have to experience everything just to tell people what they need. It doesn't work that way."

"But-"

"And don't believe that 'trust your heart' lie all the time." You intervene.

"See where that got you for the umpteenth time? You're basing your actions on what you feel. It can't work that way Elsa. You're only slowing yourself down. Or are you too tired and selfish to help people when they need you most?"

There… your straightforward words have struck me again. But they don't cut deeply the way a killing knife does. They pierce through me like a scalpel… like a blade meant to heal.

Liking you is a problem Jack.

"I know."

"No you don't know," you tell me. Your words sound a little harsh, and that's when I look up to meet your face.

Your big brown eyes. Your brave smile. There I saw what I always coveted from you.

Compassion.

Love.

How could you do this to me Jackson Overland?

"Stop beating yourself up, princess." You tell me. "And start learning that there are people who do see you and love you, in spite of what you did, or whatever wrong you're about to do."

"But I did a lot of wrong things." I whisper,

"I forgive you." You tell me.

"But I don't deserve to be loved."

"Everyone doesn't." you argue. "But yet you know I love you, right?"

Stop. Please don't say you love me.

"Don't say the word 'love' too lightly Jackson."

He smiles and shrugs. "I don't."

"But it's true. I do love you."

"As a friend." I mumble.

You frown. "Elsa. Familial, brotherly, romantic… should it matter? Will you really define love the way everybody else sees it?"

I keep silent.

You leave your place from across the room and crawl towards my side. There, you offer your fragrant presence, so comforting and sweet, with your shoulder angled towards me in invitation. Like a child, I fling myself into the comfort of your embrace, and that's where I completely lose myself.

Why is liking you such a problem Jackson?

"What matters to me is that love shouldn't be conditional." You whisper against my hair. It warms me the way your breath almost feels like a kiss… though I know you will never see me the way I yearn for in all the years you've been my 'big brother'.

"I know," I sob through your shirt.

"You can't give what you don't have." You continue. "You think you don't have experience and you are right…. But people aren't asking you for experience. They're asking for you to listen. They're asking for you to care."

"I'm scared." I admit to you in defeat, "I'm too scared to fail."

"You can't be afraid of failure Elsa." You tell me as your hand idly plays with my braid. "Everyone has to fail at some point."

"I'd rather not do and fail."

"Would you rather do and fail, or would you rather not do and regret?" you ask me, and I begin to wail against your chest. You cup my face and wipe the tears from my eyes.

Loving you is a problem Jackson Overland.

"Elsa," you whisper my name. Like a river of honey…

"What?"

"You know I love you right?"

I nod.

"But you don't understand." You smile that conceited grin.

I nod again.

And then, you kiss me.

And you took me beyond the beyond.

Loving you…. Isn't such a problem anymore.

... ... ...

A/N: May the Fortress be with you...


	2. Chapter 2

I've been meaning to ask you this for a long time but… you were too, I don't know… far away.

Which I think is pretty ironic by the way, since you are standing only a few feet apart from me.

I've seen you before, and I never got the chance to talk to you. But something in my gut tells me that you know how to answer this thing that's been bugging me for quite a while.

You stand there like the chipper girl you are. So calm and collected but… you have this witty air about you that just drives people to you. And I am fully aware that the attention kind of drives you nuts.

But you entertain everybody with your kindness anyway. You sit there from across the room smiling like you didn't have a care in the world. You talk to this bunch of teenagers who barely even know you with their menial problems (which to be honest, I feel could be easily solved if only they weren't a bunch of cry-babies) and you would nod your head the way mothers do when they understood what their kids go through pretty well. I don't know. There's just something about you that is fascinatingly weird. You look kind of scary when you want to be, and yet strangers are drawn to you like a moth to a flame when they are feeling down the dumps.

I am kind of tempted to draw near you to see for myself. I wanted to know what makes you so… different. But I can see it in your eyes. You want to escape. You want to withdraw from everyone with the way you slightly shift your feet and the way your back tenses against the chair. Though you have really good acting skills, I know that your smile is forced. You keep listening… you just do. Even though the people you help don't even bother to ask how you are doing or how your day was or if you were okay… you just keep on listening.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who can see how much their burdens weigh you down though.

I take my eyes off your company for a while and chose to focus on the instrument before me. The piano, my best friend and spokesperson, because I'm not the kind of guy who can express my-self with words and this one does the talking for me.

I take in a small breath of air. Practice for the concert we've been preparing for would start about an hour away so I help myself for a little while before the others come. My fingers stroke over the keys in a smooth glissando, until they danced over a few notes and I am completely lost in my music.

The sound rings over the small music room turned counseling room (because of all those teens trying to win your attention for free advice). The voices from your company die down and I feel all eyes turn on me. I'm kind of a shy person but… my music gives me confidence, and I am protected from the paranoia of unwanted attention.

But I kind of felt a little conscious when I saw you look my way out of my peripheral vision. Your lips were pressed into a hard line, but there was a light in your eyes I rarely see when you looked at me. This makes me turn slightly red in the cheeks, so I close my eyes and just play my music. I'm going to pretend that I didn't see you… if that's okay.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

"You play really good."

My fingers stop. The feeling of being stung in the butt by a wasp… that's how I am sort of feeling when I suddenly find you peering over my shoulder, watching my fingers freeze against the ebony keys. My voice gets stuck in my throat as I slowly meet your eyes. I feel my Adam's apple bob beneath my chin while I gulp quietly. Your lip pulls up in a slight smirk… it looks attractive by the way, the way you do that but, I'm not confident enough to tell you that.

"What was your name again?" you ask me.

"J-Jack," I say. It sounded loud in my ears, but it was only a whisper. I blush a little when you lean in because you didn't hear me well.

"What?" you ask me, your eyes fluttering involuntarily. Suddenly my throat feels a little dry.

"Jackson." I say louder this time. Now would you please go away so I can get back to my music?

Well, instead you stay. "Can you teach me how to play a few chords someday?"

Without thinking I nodded my head. Stupid.

But it was worth it when you smiled. This one was genuine, I could tell. I could tell because your eyes were shining like how light reflected against water and the upward lift at the corner of your lips looked kind of relaxed.

Wow, I am kind of good with words after all. If only I knew how to speak them out loud.

A little later you finally give me the privacy I wanted. You walk away, but I feel your eyes linger on me. Overwhelmed by the attention you were giving me, I had to flee the music room. I walk with hurried steps down the concrete stairs until the smell of the fresh evening air sends goose bumps on my skin. It's a little dark outside save the dim light of the lamp post from across the narrow road. I look at the stars hovering above a farm draped in the blue shadow of clouds, and that is the moment when I truly felt at peace with myself.

When I close my eyes I see your eyes.

"You okay?"

I flinch, and then I look over my shoulder to see you there standing, wearing that genuine smile again. My first thought was that I was kind of flattered that you came searching for me. But the bigger part of me panicked because… no one ever paid attention to me the way you did ever before.

Suddenly this stupid idea struck me. The excitement that came with it made my knees buckle a little coupled with the way I watched your pale blonde hair turn silver beneath the light. I had you to myself. We were alone. As frightening as this fact was to me, I knew this might be the only chance I could ever sort of talk with you again.

I needed to ask you this now. But I am a coward, Elsa.

"What is the use of a trashcan if garbage didn't exist?"

Stupid. Stupid Jack. Now you will think I am weird. Now you will think I've gone bonkers.

But yeah, I already am weird. And yeah, maybe I already am bonkers.

You blink, and then your brows lift and your eyes are confused. I let out a quiet sigh…. I knew it. You definitely think I have lost it.

But what you say kind of surprises me.

"Then the trashcan becomes useless, I guess," you reply, and then you quickly add, "or you can still use it, but you wouldn't call it a trashcan anymore."

I raise my brows. You have no idea how awestruck and baffled I am right now. You've entertained my question like it didn't sound weird. You answered me like my question was something you hear every day.

What exactly are you, Elsa?

"So… it means garbage is necessary for the trashcan to be useful then?"

You nod casually, "Yeah. Pretty much."

I blink, excitement bubbling within my gut though it doesn't show. "People kept wishing garbage didn't exist though."

You smirk and walk towards me until you were by my side, watching the faint stars with me.

"People make the garbage though," you reply solemnly. Your response depresses me… like, really depresses me. And you see it.

"You're right." I say. My fists clench within the sanctuary of my pockets.

"That's why they made a trashcan," you continue. "That way garbage has its place, and the trashcan becomes useful."

Great. We were speaking in metaphors.

I look at you, and you are wearing that smile again. It makes my heart beat a little faster than it normally does. You adjust your hair as you let out a breath. I know you can tell that something's wrong with me. Everyone can tell, actually. I talk too quietly, I express anger through playing video games, and I see the world a little differently than everybody does. And did I mention I talk too quietly? Yeah, I did, apparently.

"But you know…" you went on, surprising me a little when you break the silence. "Garbage is garbage if you leave it be. Sometimes stuff we throw away deserves better than being the reason for a trashcan's existence."

I remain silent. I agree with you. I nod.

"It's just that… people never bothered to look beyond the beyond," you say. "Admit it or not, we are just so superficial. And selfish. Once we are fed up with something, we throw it away. We never bothered to think if what we throw away had some other use, or perhaps had some higher purpose. We conclude a thing's use based on its outward design. We don't see that a broken umbrella could have been metal-worked into Christmas Tree, or that pieces of broken glass could have been decorations for an art piece. If the things we possess don't do the work we expected it to do, we throw them away, because these don't satisfy our wants, our needs."

You turn your head to look at me, understanding in your eyes. It crashes down on me like an avalanche at how quickly you've deciphered me. You've read through the riddle of my question like you knew all the answers of the world.

What exactly are you Elsa?

"Some garbage deserve a little more than just some trashcan,"

My brows scrunch together. My eyes find leisure staring at my feet. My fists are clenched together in a knuckle white grip. My breathing is a little labored, and I feel a stinging at my eyes.

Crap! I can't cry. I _don't _cry! I can't look like this in front of you? What the—

"Do you want to talk about what's bothering you Jack?" You ask me. There is concern in your eyes, and the sincerity in them makes me want to flee and hit something with a bat or something.

_No. _"Okay."

See how you make me betray my thoughts Elsa?

Soon we were back inside the music/"counseling" room. People probably moved to another area since it was just me and you in here right now. The wooden floors shined like caramel gold, mocking my currently blue mood (I seriously need to take up writing poetry or stuff, because I think I am getting the hang of these colorfully worded things). My eyes lingered on the piano, my best friend and spokesperson, and suddenly you knew that if we sat somewhere close to it, I'd muster up the confidence to face you or something.

We walk towards the bench beside it in silence until we've fully made ourselves comfortable. You then look at me and I feel a little guilty because I have this vague idea that you're tired of addressing to people's needs all day to even bother with me. (I am kind of surprised that I am in this situation anyway. I don't do this. I never do. That's why I am so freaking nervous right now)

"Jack,"

I flinch, "yeah?"

"What's wrong?"

The words are stuck in my throat. What do you think Elsa? What do you think is wrong with me?

But instead of getting impatient with me, you smile. "I've noticed this for a while. Correct me if I am wrong… but you strike me as a person who wants to express himself but struggles to do so."

Yes. I wanted to say yes. But words have left me.

"I understand," you say. "I'm going to let you speak. I won't butt in."

I still can't speak Elsa. The words are still stuck in my throat. I wanted to tell you that speaking isn't my thing. I wanted to tell you that confiding in you sounds cheesy and unmanly and just so uncharacteristic of me and that I don't want to… but I want to because you are looking at me like that and you are just this kind of person who somehow has earned my trust and… it's just so complicated, okay? I'm not good at this. Please, help me out.

"I promise," you say. "You can try. I won't force you. But I am giving you this one chance to try."

My eyes sting…. I've never been this… overwhelmed.

Because no one ever bothered to let me try. No one. Only you Elsa Arendelle… only you…

And so I speak. My voice is so quiet; it shows the evidence of how seldom I spoke at all. I tell you how I feel so alone in my own home. I tell you how I wanted my father to understand me, how much I wanted to meet his expectations but couldn't because I was too cowardly. I tell you my frustration over how understanding he is, and how I could not express my potential because I was scared no one would understand. I tell you how I wanted to be heard so much so badly, yet the words often die in my throat. I tell you how I've been bullied for being quiet. I tell you how I was sick when I was a baby. I tell you how I scream inwardly every day, seeing the chaos everywhere, of how I see the things other people don't see, but could not tell them. I tell you about how much I wanted to tell them of the hope I have in me so badly yet couldn't because sometimes I lose faith myself. And most of all, I tell you how useless I feel, like garbage, who's place belongs in a trashcan where it solely belongs.

And all the while, for the first time in my life I experience a person witnessing my tears of frustration. I do not sob. My voice just breaks occasionally. I see in your eyes how you thought me brave. My hands slightly tremble as I wipe the clammy skin on the fabric of my pants. I do not look at your eyes, but I know your eyes try to meet mine.

You kept your promise. You just listened.

"… I don't know what to do…" I pause, then amended, "No… I _do _know what to do. I just don't know how…"

You let out a long breath. You look wary, and I feel guilty. Now another burden you are not supposed to carry is weighed upon your shoulders. But it's also your fault Elsa… you choose to listen even when no one bothers listening to you.

I shouldn't have bothered. Now you're making me feel guilty. I should have kept my mouth shut.

And you surprise me again by smiling, "Have you told anyone this before?"

I shake my head, "No."

"Then I'm glad you told me," you say, genuinely grateful. "And I want to thank you for trusting me enough to listen."

Who are you really, Elsa Arendelle?

"Nothing is ever easy," you say. "Even people who are good at expressing themselves fail at one area too. I would usually tell people to break their paradigm of thought… but I already know that you know what to do."

"Yeah,"

"The thing is, based from what you've said… you don't trust the one you place your hope in enough." You say frankly. "You hold yourself back. You are aware of that too. You keep yourself hidden and it's what's holding you back. You don't allow yourself to be helped… until now."

You place a hand on my shoulder and meet my eyes. I dared myself to meet yours… and I've never seen anything more warm, or more caring, or more understanding.

Only you Elsa Arendelle… only you.

"You are not garbage, Jack." You say it like a declaration. You say it with certainty that it makes me want to believe you. And I do. "You may find it hard to speak with words, but there are people who can understand you the way you do music. What you deem useless has cheered the girls up while they spoke with me. Your music encouraged them to let their weakness out freely."

When I turn my head away, you gently touch my cheek in a solemn manner, and there is a calm happiness in your eyes.

"What you see as ugly is beautiful to others. But the thing is… although you know what's wrong with you, you are afraid of hearing it from other people. The paranoia of being misunderstood is understandable but… that's the truth. There will always be people who will think that the hope we have in us is foolish. But… it's what kept you together, right? It's what kept you sane all these years. It's what gave you the ability to see what others don't see. To think about garbage and trashcans and all that deep stuff."

You slightly chuckle as you edge away in respect of my personal space. I let out a breath of relief.

"You're special Jack. You see beyond the beyond. It's a beautiful gift you have." You tell me, and all wariness is gone replaced by an energy that is so calm yet bright that… I don't know. You are turning me into a poet, Elsa.

"I… I…"

"You just have to decide to appreciate the gift you have even more. All you see is what you don't have… what you can't do. But look to the grace given you… and the rest? The things you wish you could do… if you asked, if you nurtured what you have in all faithfulness, in all perseverance, things like communication barriers can be overcome… you have to try the way you tried now. And if you fail, then try again. And if you fail, then try again. And if you fail again, then keep trying until you get it right. And know that I will always have your back. Because you're not alone Jack. I'm here for you."

I stare at you in awed silence. People like you are rare, Elsa. So few ever bother to listen. So few ever bother to be there for another person. So few ever bother being selfless. So few ever bother risking betrayal, misjudgment, rejection, and all those other things that involved dying to self. You were willing to do that, and I admit you are kind of a little foolish for doing so. You deserve to rest a bit, to have some time for yourself. You deserve something better than to help me carry my own menial burden.

If I was as brave as you, I wouldn't have bothered telling you this.

"What if I'm not there for you?" I challenge you. "Would you still want to be here for me anyway?"

You are slightly caught off guard, but then you respond by saying, "I'll still be there for you, until I know when not to be there for you. You are a big boy, Jack. I'm just helping you help yourself. Everyone needs one. Even me."

You are a mystery, Elsa Arendelle.

"Where do you place your hope in? Who helps you help yourself?"

And you smile. And you are so beautiful. And you are so understanding. And you are so caring. And perhaps maybe I might fall in love with that smile one day. I don't know.

"Beyond the beyond," you answer. "Beyond the beyond."

… … …

**A/N:** Okay, this one is another story inspired by a real life situation. Most of the events that happened here, from the dialogue and such are inspired by a conversation I had with this one freshman lad when we were practicing for a mini-concert for our organization. The kid was a gamer, and a total introvert, and he best expressed himself in music and riddles. I've never met anyone who thought as deeply as this kid and he is one of the many people who struggle with their personalities, wanting to express themselves, wanting to be heard, but were never given the chance to. There's this sickening truth that the competitive people are the ones who press on in life, but those who reach the top never bother reaching out for people left behind. Some people may be content living in the shadows, but some try to break free but struggle to. And they might not say it, but some are silently crying out for help.

So if you know someone struggling with something, yet doesn't know how to express it, make sure to remind them that they are loved, that someone cares for them, that someone is willing to spare a few minutes to listen. Who knows, you might change a life in the process.

I just thought that this real life situation would incorporate well in a fictional world involving Jack and Elsa. Although Jack seems OOC here, I imagine them having a conversation something like this. Jack maybe a bit childish and mischievous but I think he's the type of person who ponders a lot. And Elsa, obviously, is one to ponder about many things too.

I hope you like this guys. It isn't much, but I just wanted to get this writing done because I felt led to. Bye for now.

… … …

_May the Fortress be with you…_


	3. Chapter 3

I always hate myself. Everyday. But what sucks the most is that you hurt when I hurt. It makes me hate myself more.

I could never hate you Jack. But the more I hate myself makes me question the love I have for you.

"Do you love me Elsa?"

"Yes! Yes I do!"

Your laughter was the first thing about you that captured my heart. You saw me at my best, and helped me at my worst. You were every woman's dream, every man's friend. I considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.

You loved me even though I was a criminal's daughter. When everyone disapproved of you choosing me as your girlfriend, you loved me anyway.

You taught me many things. How to cook my food properly. How to make origami for some art projects back in high school. How to make money on my own. You even gave me a house, and a brand new wardrobe. You fed me and protected me like the perfect boyfriend that you are.

You gave me many more things than that. You gave me a new start. You gave me your name. You made me a part of your family.

"Do you love me, Elsa?"

"Yes! Yes I do!"

And as the years went by, you never ceased to love me less. Even when I screwed up your portfolio for a work project because I was too busy looking for my earrings, you still loved me (after a decent lecture of course). Even when a few of your office mates flirted with me, and I entertained them because I adored their attentions, you still loved me (after reminding me that I am yours). Even when you caught me kissing that apprentice boy you call Jamie, you only wore that stony expression in silence... and in the morning you still say: "You know I love you, right Elsa?"

And I say, " I do."

When you do not give me what I want, you show your frightening anger. But even in your wrath, I can feel your love still strong for me. Even though the child in my womb is not yours and I know though I never told you that you knew, you still love me just as strongly as the first time you met me.

They called you stupid for loving me. I hate them that they say you are stupid.

They are right for saying you should stop loving me. But I know in my heart that you are not stupid.

Loving me was your choice. That is why I hate myself because you love me.

"Do you love me, Elsa?" you ask.

You asked me that question when you figured out I was sleeping with Hiccup.

You asked me that when I dated Rapunzel's boyfriend behind your back.

You asked me that when Hans offered me a date promising to buy me these red pumps I've been wanting so much that I forgot it was our anniversary.

And when I told you that I was fed up with you on a beautiful afternoon during the first day of the rainbow festival, you asked me that question with a brave mournful smile that it didn't fail to break my heart.

"Do you love me Elsa?"

I thought it was the right thing to do. You're too good. You're too pure. You're too loving.

You are everything I don't deserve.

I hurt you openly. I feel guilt. I feel regret. But I keep on hurting you.

So when I left our house without so much as a goodbye, you let me. You did not stop me. When I ran away with a rich man in the dark of night, I could feel your melancholic eyes behind my back, peeking through the curtain of your bedroom. If I looked back, I was sure there would be tears in your eyes.

But why does it seem that you still held on to my heart in that sickeningly sweet but stubborn fashion?

And now I cry my eyes to sleep... thinking of those many times... those many times I hurt you, those many times I could have made amends, those many times you've never ceased to give me second chances, third chances, fourth chances.

I hate myself because of you. And you know what's worse?

I hate myself more because it hurts you when I hate myself.

The man I ran away with has left me. The jewels my lovers gifted me were either stolen or exchanged for money at a pawnshop. My friends have deserted me. My career has failed. My actions have made me desolate.

My last resort at self support was to put on a red light.

I deserve this punishment... to stand in a crowd of lustful eyes, of men in business suits with cancer sticks nestled on their lips. Of smoke and steam and poles and deafening music. Of racy red stilleto heels and black and blue lingerie. Of scarlet blood lips and diamonds on my neck.

This is the world I deserve to live in. A world where I wear the scarlet letter, to testify of how I pierced your heart over and over again. I deserve this. I am not proud of who I am, of what I've become... but I deserve this... I deserve this... I deserve this...

A man with sideburns slyly reaches up as I squat in fake lascivousness, exposing the parts of me that should have been kept for you. I am required to do this. It's the only way for me to live now. He wears a lecherous smile as he slips a thick wad of dollars on the strap of my stockings, and I give him a wink.

I fight the bile that tries to escape my throat.

When the night comes, my body yields to carnal pleasure. But after the dark deed is done, I am left with a sickening feeling. I feel disgusted with myself as I cry myself to sleep. There is no comfort in the seediest places of this city.

I merely hold on to the memory of you beside me, wearing the most gentlest of smiles when you meet my eyes fresh from sleep. I meditate on the afternoons we spent strolling by the park as the green and yellow leaves from the maple trees flutter about in our path. I dream of the evenings we rendevous on our favorite green hill, lying on the soft dew-kissed grass as the stars smile down upon us.

I miss the twinkle in your eyes as you turn to face me on your side, asking me... "Do you love me Elsa?"

"Yes..." I wail against my pillows. "Yes I do!"

What was the point now? I know you won't hear me.

I cry like a babe whenever I remember your love for me. You must hate me terribly now.

"Snow Queen," I hear a man knock from outside my door. "Someone's here to collect you."

"Tell him I'm not in the mood!" I shriek angrily. Let me be alone. Let me curse myself more for hurting the one I love.

"He's not here for a quick poke, you bitch!" the man snaps. "The man came to bail you out. Bought ya for the price of five hundred thousand dollars."

What?

I hear the man snicker, "We would 'ave given a fucked up wench for just a few hundred dollars. This poor chap's payin' for so much than what ya worth."

I hear a slap.

"Shut up and let me in."

That voice... I know that voice.

"Jack?" I croak against my pillows.

The door opens, and I hear the thud of relaxed but heavy footsteps on the animal print carpet. One breath through the nose and I instantly recognize your Joel Cruz perfume like it was oxygen. I hide my face behind the pillows as I push myself up by the balls of my feet and recline against the headboard.

Stay away from me. I am dirty... so dirty...

"Elsa," you murmur my name, the same way you did when we were young. The same way you made me fall head over heels in love with you.

Why can't you stay away?

"Come back to me Elsa." you plead.

Why?

"Why?" I ask. My voice is hoarse. My voice cries.

When I steal a glance at your face, so stern, so angelic, so wise, so old, so young, you smile a melancholic but hopeful smile.

"Do you still love me Elsa?"

The question hurts me. The question kills me. The question shatters my heart into a thousand pieces.

"Yes," I cry. My voice breaks. My face is buried within my palms. "Yes. Yes. Yes..."

You sit closer and you envelope me in your warmth. I bury my face in your chest. Your embrace is like home. Your embrace is home.

"Why?!" I ask you. "Why do you pursue me?! Even after everything I ever did?! Why?! Why?! Why?!"

You let me go when I willingly left. You found me at the worst of the doom I placed on myself and you rescued me.

"Why?!"

You place a soft kiss on my temple. I feel fresh tears stain your chiseled cheeks. You arrange my hair neatly and continue to cradle me ever so lovingly...

"Because I love you." you whisper.

And I cry, and cry, and cry some more.

Your love is too much. It makes me confess of all I've done wrong against you. All the things you know already, all the things I never told you. All the horrible things. All the dreadful things. They flow out of my lips like a river. They flow as fluidly and raggedly as my tears and my breaths.

You hush me and rock me back and forth, and for once in a long, long, long time... I feel safe.

What do I have to do to earn your forgiveness? What should I do Jack?

"Come back to me," you tell me. "And be my wife. And love me the way you love me now."

"Yes!" I cry harder. "Yes! I will... I will... I'm so sorry! So sorry... so sorry."

When I loved you, you loved me. When I hurt you, you reprimanded me, but loved me. When I left you, you let me, but loved me.

When I shamelessly accept your forgiveness, you love me anyway.

Things will change. You might get stricter. I will be more faithful.

But your love for me won't. And neither mine for you.

Because our love goes beyond the beyond.

... ... ...

A/N: I was supposed to be writing MischievousRose's prompt given through FB. But uhm... well, something happened. xD I was well... feeling the 'vibe' and the only way I could express it was through metaphors. So...TADA... this little fic was the fruit of it. This, like the previous two chapters of BTB, is also inspired by a true story. I used the word 'inspired' because well... I think you get what I mean xD

Well... I hope you guys like it in spite of the underlying bittersweetness I felt as I wrote this. :3

p.s. MischievousRose's prompt comes next


	4. Chapter 4

You know I never believed that love is blind.

Literally speaking, I see more clearly when there is light. Mornings are more beautiful to me, because I see the sunrise as a glittering jewel that floats up from the east. Sunsets create a more nostalgic feel upon the earth descending into peaceful darkness. The open fields are more vibrant, the urban settings more lively, the safety of our home more alive. You've always known that in spite of the way I tend to wake up late, I always loved the daytime. Because everything is filled with so much light.

I appreciate the nights during a full moon. During darker evenings, I appreciate the stars because they shine brighter. The world to me is a beautiful place to live in because there is light shining over it. And it only got better when I met you.

You are the first light I see in the morning, and during the rare instances that I wake up before the sun rises, your pale blonde hair is the first light I see. It only gets better the soonest your sleepy eyes open and show me a pair of the most beautiful blue irises I've ever seen. Seeing your eyes never fail to brighten up my days. Your pearly smile could blind a person, and whoever got blind because of it surely won't complain.

Because you Elsa... you're the most beautiful light this world ever had.

You kind of hate it when I tell you that during date nights. You say that it's really cheesy, but your blush gives away the fact that you love it anyway.

"I love you."

When you say those three words, it's like the darkness and the shadows are all just a part of myth. Cliche as it may sound, you're the light of my world Elsa. You're the love that makes me see things more clearly. With you here, the world is suddenly a brighter place, and if I was ever blind to the simple things that make life complete, I can say that now I finally see them.

I thank God every day that He made me your man.

I also thank Him for our everyday morning routine. Another reason why I've always loved mornings.

The first best place I love seeing you in is when you're beside me in bed. It's either you'd kiss me (hotly, if I might add) or tickle me awake. And then you'd drag my lazy butt off the bed and tell me I'm thirty minutes late for work when it's only five in the morning. (Honestly, I hate it when you do that... but you make for it when you promise really delicious things when the day is over).

The second best place I like seeing you in is when you're in the kitchen. Maybe it's because when you are in your royal blue apron and floral beige dress, you beat the daylight to it's brightness. Your brows are scrunched together in concentration as you chop three tomatoes and a few onions along with other queer mixtures of reds and greens that I always loved to see and consume in my omelet. I always take this opportunity to sneak up on you, plant a naughty kiss at the nape of your neck, nibble on your ear. And then you'd slap my arm with a spatula, and your face would burn a bright cherry red.

While I got ready for work, purposely humming off-key in the shower, I know you're doing the laundry I kept promising I'd do the day before. My suits are always as new as the day you bought them. Sometimes I fear my female co-workers would pine after me because of how polished you make me looked everyday. But they said that a woman doesn't love her man if his clothes smelled like crap all the time. I guess you prove your love to me by making my clothes smell like a bed full of lemons all the time.

When I leave for work, I can't help but look back at our front porch everytime I'm eight yards away from home. Only forty seconds outside of our house and I already miss seeing you smile. And you would laugh, and the neighbors and passer bys would give you a weird look, and you'd shoo me away with a wave and a flying kiss.

It was different this morning.

Today was one of those rare instances that I woke up before you. When I kissed you awake, you pushed me away. Did I do something wrong?

For some reason you couldn't tell which was salt or pepper. You almost chopped the ball of cheese thinking it was an apple. And you poured soy-sauce on my coffee. Are you mad at me, Elsa?

When I went out of the shower, there was a burn on my office polo. And it's white fabric had red and blue stains on it. If something's the matter, please tell me.

"I'm fine," you say coldly. I notice the way your hand tends to cop a feel of your surroundings.

I'm not stupid. I know when a person isn't doing fine.

"You don't seem fine," I tell you. "I'm taking you to the doctor."

"That won't be necessary," you quickly reply. "Shouldn't you be off Jackson?"

Your grip is hard as you led me out to the door. For the first time since our marriage, you shut the door in my face as soon as I was out of the house.

You didn't see me off when I reached past eight yards off the curb.

... ... ...

I didn't want you worrying about me. Because you are the light of my world Jack.

Because if I ever hear a frown in that voice of yours, then I know you're not wearing the conceited smile that made me fall head over heels in love with you. Knowing that you are wearing that smile is enough reassurance that I am not completely robbed of the light. Because light is leaving me Jack. I'm losing my sight. I'm going blind.

I don't even understand what the problem is... with my eyes I mean.

When the doctor explained what the problem was with my eyes, all I understood was that it was too late to cure it, because I refused earlier treatment and that blindness was inevitable. I get scared walking home because I refused a cane countless times. But I wanted to stay strong and become the perfect wife you deserve to have.

Because you are the most charming, most considerate, most loving husband any woman could have.

There were times, when passing by the nearby pedestrian lane after the curb, my vision fails me. Sometimes I see, sometimes I don't. It's like a lightbulb going on and off in slow motion, and I know amidst the shifts in light and darkness, all eyes are on me, fearing for my life as vehicles big and small make their clumsy effort to prevent my death.

When I almost got run over by an ambulance of all vehicles, that was when my friend from work finally called you and told you my problem in spite of all my bribes and protests.

You didn't frown because I was going blind. You frowned because I refused to tell you, becuase I refused your help.

How do I know? I could hear it in your voice when you said, "Let's go home, Elsa."

"I'm sorry, Jack." It's an apology that pertains to many things.

"I know."

Blindness isn't my nightmare. Being a burden is my nightmare.

So forgive me when I treat you coldly when I refuse to let you pass me the butter. Forgive me if some of your clothes are colored blue instead of red everytime I salvage them out of the drier. Forgive me if I refuse your comforting kisses in the mornings. Forgive me if, in the days to come, I'll only be your weight instead of your wife. I know that in time this life will wear you down and you'll have to go and find another woman to fill my shoes. And that's what I want Jack. No matter how much it pains me with the thought of you with another woman, I'd rather you be the pampered husband you deserve to be than a blind woman's caretaker.

I don't want your pity, I just want you to smile.

I'll never see you smile again.

"Morning, beautiful! What's for breakfast."

"The usual monstrosity that is your omelet."

"Ah. You really do know me."

But this horrible, horrible truth did not deter me from being the wife you deserve to have. While I still can, I will still kiss you awake in the mornings. Even if my lips miss their target, so long as it's the skin of my husband I am kissing, I know that I am content. I learn my way to the kitchen, use my other senses to tell which one was salt or pepper, or which fruits were apples or oranges. I'll still cook that weird food you call beakfast and try my best not to mistake the soy sauce with milk like I did last time. I can still do the laundry, because I know that your colored clothes smell like flowers, your whites smell like lemons, your denim pants rough to the touch... I'll find my way through everything eventually.

And I did.

"You'll be okay walking on your own to work?"

"Jack, I may be blind, but I have a cane and a pair of ears. I'll be fine."

"Hmmm, you're sure?"

"Yup. I already know my way around the neigborhood. And you have work."

"Well... you can still..."

"And I can draw floor plans again. I showed my stuff to Anna. She said I can still draw."

"Amazing! As expected from my wife. She is the most awesome woman in the world after all."

'Shut up and just go to work, Jack. I love you."

And for the following days, our routine was both the same and never the same. I can still cook your meals, and wash your clothes, and see you off when you go to work. Except... I can't really see anymore.

But knowing that you will face the day with a smile is enough to keep me pressing on. Because I love you very much.

"I love you too."

When you say those four words, it's as if I've never been blinded at all.

I thank God everyday that He made me your woman.

... ... ...

I used to believe that love isn't blind. When you say that love is blind, it is both true and not true.

Because I still believe that love causes ones eyes to open up to the things that really matter. Love brings forth truth, shuns deceit, brings out goodness and all those other stuff romantic poets keep ranting on about.

But I also learned that love is indeed blind. Not blind in the sense most people percieve it to be. Love is blind to hatred, blind to imperfections, blind to hardships and blind to inconveniences. Love chooses not to keep record of any wrongdoings, is compassionate, and is selfless. It makes you blind to your own needs, and esteems others needs above yours.

If I thought I knew enough about love before, now you have proved me wrong.

Because now, I do know that I really and truly love you.

I don't really say it, but when you wake up in the morning when you think you were the first to rise, I finally break out of that oversleeping habit to see you sound asleep before sunrise. In the darkness when you are at peace, I know that light dances behind your eyelids by way of peaceful dreams. When you finally open your eyes, and though I know you can't see me, I find myself feeling more entranced by them. Because even in the darkness, you still look at me with the same reverence a woman has for her husband and it's tearing me up inside.

When you rise in the morning to make breakfast, instead of being the freeloading idiot that I am, I watch you skillfully cutting vegetables like you were never blind at all. You might not know it, but you still mistake the salt with pepper... so I open the lids without you knowing so you'd know which was which. Stubborn Elsa, you just refuse to let me help you. So I'll just help you in secret.

You wonder how the laundry seemed to be done faster now huh? That's because I cut my shower time by a few minutes, so I'd be able to help you separate the whites from the colored ones. It amazes me how you were able to tell which was which. I try to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible... because I like to see you like this. Now I know that even when I'm not around, your laundry-inspired love is done with so much care in spite of what you are now.

I don't actually go past forty yards when you see me out anymore. You didn't know that I took a different job closer to your workplace. I wait for you when you finally leave the house, trailing you a few steps behind, walking in front of you a few steps forward. Pedestrian lanes never drove me crazy until when you start crossing the street, and I'm like a volunteer traffic enforcer whenever you cross one street to another.

You never knew that during my thirty minute breaks, I go to your office to watch you work. I tell your co-workers to keep mum about this, because I didn't want them spoiling my fun. I love watching you work, making cool blueprints for residential houses and commercial buildings with ease. Even your boss is impressed. And I've never felt more proud to have you as my wife.

I walk you home, and I'm like a dog loyally guiding his owner to her destination. But you don't know this, and I don't plan on letting you know. When you reach the forty yard mark close to our house, I let you walk on ahead, because this is when I know you can do this all on your own. Heck, you've been doing everything alone, Elsa. But I can't let you do everything alone, because I'm your husband.

Because you're not the only one who's blind you see. I'm kind of a blind person myself.

I'm blind to the idea that you are a burden to me. Because you are not.

"Welcome home, Jack. How was work?"

I shrug, wearing a secretive smile which for some reason you know I am wearing, "Oh, you know. The usual."

"You sound like you had a really good day." you reply, wearing that sly grin I fell in love with.

"I did." I tell you. "I had a really good day."

Because you are the light of my world, Elsa. And with you, the world is suddenly a brighter place.

... ... ...

A/N: Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey.

This oneshot was inspired by a Christian video about love and marriage... although I kind of forgot what the link was. (I will post it in my profile once I find it again) This is a prompt requested by the lovely MischeivousRose, so I hope this was to your liking dearie. :3

A shoutout to WritingMage by the way. This user sent me a very inspiring PM that really gave me the push I needed to finish this oneshot along with all my other stories.

Uhm, well... hope you guys liked this. Leave a review on your way out. :D


	5. Chapter 5

What are you thinking?

That's the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up and see you smiling down at me in that bittersweet fashion. Knowing you, being the docile yet headstrong woman that you are, I often wonder how you truly feel in spite that tomorrow, you might possibly never see me again.

I've heard your friends warn you countless times that being married to a man who makes a living out of war is a very heavy and heartbreaking responsibility. You'd have to live with your husband keeping secrets. You only get to see him during the rare holidays. You'd have to live with taking care of the children on your own when he's away. You'd have to carry the burden of telling them the right answer when they start asking questions about where daddy is. You'd have to bear the pain of seeing him leave, of never asking how work was because he's sworn by oath not to tell anyone, not even his wife. You'd have to be prepared for when he comes home without blinking, or breathing. You'd have to live with the fact that the next time he leaves the house, he might never come home.

You'd never doubt my faithfulness, because you were not like the other wives... but somewhere inside of my head is thinking, you're doubting if I'd live to see another day.

You know sometimes I wish for those conflicts common to marriage. Arguments sometimes saved a marriage according to a few friends. I heard that your cousin named after that long-haired princess in fairy tales often got into arguments with her husband. But unlike other couples, their marriage lasted a good and happy ten years. In those arguments, they knew what they were thinking. They knew what they felt was wrong about each other. They corrected each other, encouraged one another, communicated together. They knew exactly what the other was thinking. We've been married for three years, and I still wonder if you've ever thought of being angry at me, because I never chose to stay.

Instead, when I leave for the base, you'd stand by the porch and cup my face in your hands, and you'd rise on your tip-toes to kiss my forehead the way you would a child. And I'd be caught in a sense of nostalgia when you did the same thing to me the night of our first date, the night I took you home after prom, the night I finally took you home as my wife, and I'd be so overwhelmed and kiss you full on the mouth. Then you would laugh...

"Hurry up, soldier. The commander's probably waiting!"

And while dressed in your peach colored blouse and khaki skirt, with your hair braided like royalty and your lips coated in serene-looking pink, I'd wish time wasn't such a prick and slow down to make this moment last longer. Here I'd find a picture perfect image of the loveliest woman in the world, smiling like it was always summer when it was fairly cold. It was a picture worth freezing time for.

Unfortunately, time listened to no one. It moved on its own in a constant pace... and it was only the beating of my heart that deceived me into thinking whether it was too fast or too slow.

"Take care of yourself now, Elsa."

And with your too trusting smile, you look at me with those ocean-like eyes and tell me, "Promise me you'll come back."

You already know my answer. "I promise to always love you."

Because I never make promises I could never keep. You knew that most of all, Elsa. And yet I know that when I board that vehicle that takes me to where this nation needs me to be, here you'll be waiting by the porch of this cozy bungalow situated by the pristine Sauntoff Claussen lake, standing there the way you're standing now. You'll be knitting those snow-themed scarves and sweaters, or making sculptures out of ice. You'll be making paintings with that cousin of yours or baking cookies with Anna for her kids who joined the Fairy Scouts this year. You'd go fishing or hunting with your sister's husband Kristoff and his family, because you didn't give a damn about people saying that fishing and hunting were the provinces of men. You'll be living life with the ones you love who will never leave you... and still be the devoted wife patiently waiting for the one who possibly would.

I still wonder what you are thinking about though.

I don't look back the soonest I step out of the yard. Outside our home, I was Leutenant Jackson Overland Frost; a soldier. And soldiers have no time for thinking twice. This has always been the way we survive. This has always been the way I know I'm going home. But when you're part of the Navy SEALS, you're not supposed to be afraid of dying. You'd have to look at death the way you look at life. It just is. It's part of existing. It's where the temporary ends.

But it didn't say about us being unafraid of leaving loved ones behind.

"Today we'll be training for a highly classified operation taking place two months from now in Abottabad, Pakistan. This is an assassination mission where we'll be taking out three targets, one of them being their leader..."

Within the barracks, encased in walls of brown clay-like stone and metal, seated more or less twenty of the nation's elite commando unit. Most of them were friends I never told you about. Some were older, some were younger... but all had held an M16 and killed a world-class criminal with it before. No one was a newbie, and even an idiot with eyes could see with the way we stood in a discipline befitting a soldier that our mind, body and soul was conditioned for war.

As the general spoke, I wasn't thinking of what you were doing back home. I felt that I already knew you'd be making that silly Norwegian breakfast around this time, or that you'd be busy making the house look more immaculate than it already was. Instead, my mind was focused on this mission. It was focused on the soldiers who I'd be working with, the enemies we's be dealing with, the territorial risks we'd be facing, and the implication that the mission was possibly the most monumental mission we'd be doing in the history of the Navy SEALS.

I didn't really care. A mission was a mission; a mission wherein just like all the others, involved too many secrets.

"The target's alias... is 'Boogeyman'."

There were a few snickers from the far right of the line. You'd probably laugh at the alias too, and I assume you'd hold your laughter better than all the soldiers here combined. Only a few seconds of mirth was granted as the general coughed sternly and glared. There was no room for humor in the barracks. Only focus as sharp as a sword.

We didn't know who our target was. We didn't need to. Here at the Navy SEALS, answers weren't given to us unless the time was right for us to know. It keeps the nation safe. It keeps us safe. It keeps our families safe. Most importantly, it keeps you safe, Elsa.

Do you not ask about my secrets because you were aware of this? That our secrets are what keeps us safe from each other? How about you Elsa? Do you keep secrets from me too? Behind the kindness, the laughter, the warmth, what could possibly be on your mind?

"You're brooding again, Jack." my friend, Harrison "Hiccup" Haddock laughs.

"Just thinking about how the missus is doing." I admit. He was the only soldier from this unit I ever told you about.

"Ah, that's normal." he muses. "But if you're not up for this, you could always tell pops to send you home."

I smirk, "I didn't sign up for the Navy to go home, Hiccup."

You know this too, Elsa. You've always been aware of this. It makes me wonder if you ever want me to stay at all.

_Oh longed for love, I loved so long_

_Tired hearts still beat so strong_

_Please hear me now this fading plea_

_Oh longed for love return to me_

As I rehearse the assassination plan with my fellow soldiers, timing our infiltration into the imitation of a two storey residential right at the outskirts of the city we planned to trespass, I hear your voice singing at the back of my head, keeping me focused. It's funny how your sweet sounding hymns and lullabies fit as a mental soundtrack while I pointed guns at my enemies. As smoke, dirt, metal and cement exploded into a confetti of debris as we bombed walls, vaults, weapons, and doors, I hear you somewhere in the deepest depths of my memories playing the viola or singing that Gaelic song we heard from that Irish movie you loved so much. It comforts me knowing that while I get ready for war, you'll be singing our song by the front portico, knitting a sweater for a baby yet to come, waiting...

_Oh longed for love I've loved so long_

_Tired hearts still beat so strong_

_Please hear it now this fading plea_

_Oh longed for love return to me_

Your patience keeps me alive. I wish I'd be worth the wait. But I never know what you're thinking.

Two months have passed, and we await the commander's go signal. We've finalized the plan, being composed of three black ops teams and one extraction team. The plan was to fly forty minutes from here to there in pitch darkness, hovering through the highlands in moderate altitude to avoid Pakistani radar. The large residential we'd be infiltrating was surrounded by those metal walls you'd usually associate with a factory, and it was moderately guarded. We assumed there'd be women and children there. What we'd do might not impress you since we're told to shoot down any possible hindrances to the operation. There were a lot of risks: getting discovered by the government, the nearby Pakistani military academy, the neighbors... the target.

Today was the day we'd be informed of our target.

Naturally, I'm part of the commando unit, riding in a stealth copter with Hiccup to infiltrate the enemy's hideout from the roof. It was the trickiest part of the operation, as hovering over urban structures could jeopardize flight and send us to our crashing doom... along with our cover being blown. But you know me, Elsa. I don't get killed that easily. You often kid about how indestructible I was. You've prided about how I could endure the pain of arm wrestling with Oaken for more than twenty minutes. I always believed in my own strength, but strength was different when you knew someone had faith in you. I trusted your faith in me. I still do now.

But that faith was put in question the soonest the general informed us of our target.

"... and last but not the least, Kozmotis Pitchiner a.k.a. Pitch Black, alias Boogeyman."

The room was silent. There was the kind of tension that wasn't associated with fear, like those cared to believe. But there was that depth of importance, the realization of the weight this mission represented, not only for the country, but for the families of every American citizen there is.

Do you remember him, Elsa? The terrorist who took the life of your parents a few years ago? The one whom the previous government gave up looking for because of how untraceable he was? Do you remember the angry tears you cried as I held you that night, trying in silence to console you as I rocked you back and forth in an embrace, made love to you as if we were dying so I could take the pain away? Do you remember when you hugged me so tightly, for the first time I felt that you were scared to death of letting me go? That you might lose me too?

This enemy... this enemy was a man not to be taken likely of. He had killed thousands of people over the years, in different parts of the world, earning the loyalty of many of his countrymen for his sick and twisted cause, whatever it may be. He has captured some of the best commandos before, tortured them, killed them before an audience of more than five million. He operated in the darkness, sent the CIA on a wild goose chase for more than a decade... he was the best of the best; the most dangerous man in the world.

Blast it. This was not the time to put a tail between my legs. I was a freaking Navy SEAL.

But... back home, I am also your husband, whom you are still waiting for with arms wide open.

_"Hi Jack. I'm so happy you called!" _you say over the phone. You sound so enthusiastic, so excited to be talking to me. It makes me feel glad, relieved, knowing that you were fine, knowing that you were safe.

"I'm happy too," I murmur against the phone. We were only given a few minutes that morning to contact our loved ones before we make the flight tonight. None of my fellow soldiers called anyone.

_"Well... why did you call, by the way?" _you ask with a tinge of shyness. _"Not that I didn't want you calling but-"_

"I know," I say. "But I wanted to hear your voice. I missed you."

_"I..." _you were silent for a few moments. _"I miss you too Jack... I always do."_

I was afraid hearing you say that would make my heart swell. But it doesn't keep me from taking this mission. It doesn't keep me from serving this country. It doesn't save me from standing by near death's door.

"I just... I just want to tell you... take care." I swallowed. "I'll be fine."

_"Jack..." _you sound worried, _"you'll be back soon, right?"_

There it was. Ever since your parents died, I could finally hear it in your voice, see it with my mind... You're afraid. You're afraid that I won't be back. You don't want me to go. You want me to stay with you, be your husband, quit the operation, quit the unit...

For the first time, I make a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

"I will." I tell you. I'm not quitting the Navy... but I will promise to come back to you, Elsa.

I have to survive.

_-Alpha has crash landed by the left yard!-_

_-Move to plan B. Infiltrate the building from down up-_

_-Zero casualty for Alpha. Ready to engage-_

_-Engaging target-_

_-Target identified as Harimon-_

_-Boogeyman has been sighted-_

_-He's climbing up the roof!-_

_-Frost to Vikings. Boogeyman is down. I repeat, Boogeyman is down-_

_-Get ready for evac-_

_-Dispose of Alpha Bee-_

_-MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!-_

_-... ... ...-_

_-Mission accomplished, boys.-_

_... ... ..._

"Jack!"

One thing that was great about every mission is that you survived it. One could die a hero to the country, or you could live a hero to one's family. The heroic deeds one does in secret is worth so much, as expensive as the lives of millions of people young and old whom a soldier swore to protect. Apart from that, one has proved his worth as a soldier, as a true member of the elite. He has proved that even the most dangerous people and the most dangerous places will not shake him, that death is but a door that needs to be taken, that it is as common as breathing, as natural as living, as welcome as an embrace, as familiar as home.

To me, those were not the very best things about surviving. To me, the best thing about coming home after a mission was to see you smiling, embracing me in a hug so tight that I could barely breathe. To me, it was the smell of your vanilla-scented hair and the kitchen smell on your clothes. To me it was your gentle hands cupping my face and kissing me until your legs were weak from balancing on your toes. To me it was you leading me inside the bungalow we call our home, taking me to the dining room where you made me Norwegian supper. To me it was you blushing, smiling, giggling, crying as you announced that you were three months pregnant. To me it was kissing you and loving you until it was dawn. To me it was always your bittersweet smile in the mornings, of me wondering... wondering... wondering...

What are you thinking?

"I promise to come back."

You blink down at me in confusion.

"You're leaving again?" you ask, sounding disappointed.

"No." I tell you quickly. "But... it's different now. Because today, I promise I'll always come back to you."

You smile. It was genuine. It wasn't sad. It was completely you.

"But I always believe you'll come back," you say. You caress my skin the way you would a babe. "There are days when it's hard... when waiting seems unbearable. Many times... I wanted to ask you to resign and just take a less dangerous job but..."

I kiss her lips. You're dazed. You're breathless.

"In time." I tell you. "But now... I'm asking you to wait a little more."

You nod. You rest your head on my chest. You listen to my heartbeat.

"Just as long as you promise to return to me. I will wait forever."

I smile, "And I also promise to love you forever."

I may not know what you are thinking all of the time... but I know that you believe in me.

Because I never make promises I wouldn't keep.

A/N: Hello. I hope you liked this installment to BtB. Admittedly, this may not be my best ones hot in the series but I am kind of satisfied with how this turned out. This is inspired by the true story of the Navy SEALS who contributed to one of America's most monumental achievements with National Security. I was watching a documentary about a highly covert operation to take down a notorious terrorist and I thought of writing something out of it after contemplating about what soldiers are probably thinking when facing a dangerous mission. I'm no American, but I salute them soldiers for being courageous enough to serve their country despite the odds.

The italicized lyrics were taken from "Longed for Love" by Laura Story. A very touching song with bittersweet melody.

Drop a review on your way out. :)


	6. Chapter 6

A friend got married today.

He was the happiest twit I'd ever seen in a while, arm laced over a blonde, strong willed female he'd been friends with since they were children. The boy-turned-man looked good in a black tux, his once messy brown hair gelled in a sleek fashion, and while standing next to the woman with a gown made of sparkling sequins against a sea of white silk, he had never looked more calm yet treacherously nervous.

Hiccup was no stuttering fool ever since he reached 20, but right now, as the minister declared them husband and wife while the storm of camera flashes almost blinded the couples' eyes, the man had turned tongue-tied with unspeakable happiness over finally marrying someone he adored since before he was a pubescent with raging hormones. He found love he longed for since he was a child and the completion he longed for since the day he was born.

He found a new home.

"Congratulations man." I tell him. It was genuine. It was heartfelt. I was happy for the guy.

"Thanks." he replied. "Now better hurry up and get married so we're even!"

Laughter from the crowd reminds me that there were people apart from close friends and relatives in weddings that (annoyingly) want to take part in the main attraction's shenanigans (and popularity). Naturally, there'd be lots since he was the son of the city's mayor, and soon enough, Hickory Haddock III would be joining the Vikings political party list for next year's elections. He'd been hesitant about it for sometime, frequently doubting his leadership skills. It was a good thing Astrid knocked some sense into that kid before he decided to throw in the towel and completely disappoint the father who constantly believed in him.

The dying sounds of snickers pull me back into the reality that I was being made fun off. Scratching my head, I let out an awkward chuckle as I am reminded that even non-believers of the contented brooder could see me.

Meaning I wasn't invisible. Meaning society expects me to be part of them: to be part of the norm, to long for what many long for in the (sort-of) ripe age of twenty seven.

Such deep thoughts for such a mundane situation.

"When the bride throws the bouqet, make sure the best man gets it!"

Crowds broke into loud guwaffs (yet again) while I shook my head in well-mannered disbelief. I saw familiar faces from the Vikings club (not to be confused with the party list), dressed in formal wear in place of their Norwegian warrior cosplay get-up (which is quite funny, considering that they are one of the best lawmakers, politicians, policemen, and military officials in all of Berk.) Hiccup had strange childhood friends, but they were all a fun group (and were either married or engaged with their significant others, thus the constant teasing of the groom's best friend's still miserably single status.)

"I thought he should get the garter?" Hiccup quipped innoccently.

Giggling women dressed in what looked like... like gown versions of cake pastries were giving me that weird sultry look that could give men nightmares if they weren't careful.

"Ha, ha, very funny." I deadpanned, choosing to finish my drink instead as I made a bee-line for the bar near the reception's patio.

"Hey come on Jack. We were only kidding," I heard Hiccup call after me, still recovering from laughter. "Don't you want a girl waiting for you when you come home?"

I didn't look back, choosing instead to raise my hand and wave in a lazy fashion as I made myself comfortable on one of the bar stools. But what the groom last said kind of stuck in my head just like that annoying Lego song I keep hearing on some children's FM radio.

Home...

I always thought I grasped the concept of a home since the time of my early teens. Raised by a single mother and growing up with a younger sister, I lived my life mostly content being the pseudo-father. I loved the memory of the man who was supposed to be there for us, but life isn't often very kind because it can leave you when you least expect it. Father died when we were young. Grief was a bitter pill to swallow, so we chose instead, with difficulty, to honor his memory and live on.

And I had lived on. Worked and played the way a content man did. Lived for ambition in the springtime of my youth. Fought my way to success in the early stages of adulthood. Lived my dreams in my mid twenties as a writer. Provided for my mom and sister with the necessary things and occassionally the luxuries of life. I've lived on. Life was already good. I had no need for anymore, and anymore was already considered an excessive blessing.

Friends jeered at me for that thought, for the dogma of contentedness often had its consequences. Because I had been so content living with what I already had, I no longer desired for more.

Why did I need to find a girl when I was already happy with what I had?

Well... In all honesty, that last sentence was a lie. I do desire for more... But I make a good show at pretending not to.

That was why I am getting teased for being twenty seven and still single.

Hiccup's wedding was an unconscious testament to my longing for more. Now that one of my best friends is married, I'm reminded of the 'more' that is yet to happen in my life. But time runs out, and losing an important figure in your life can leave you anxious for the sand that seeps down the lower half of the hourglass. Time can be as precious and as cruel as the finest gold. It leaves you wanting and left with nothing. Just a sparkle that catches the attention of the desperate eye, nursed by calloused hands in tender care, but no more than something to adorn ones' neck...

And jewelries are often meaningless. They're just there to make you look pretty. Just like time... It's only there to prove that you exist.

Hiccup no longer existed. Hiccup now lived.

As the jealous friend, I also wanted to live.

And here I am brooding a week after the events of a friend's wedding, thinking of what to write but couldn't. Leaning over my writing desk, white dyed bangs shielding my hair from the wood and dust, I fell into another state of intense brooding, thinking my way through the labyrinth of my thoughts. This is my curse. Contentment often brings you to question the sanity of your sanity.

The simplest things trigger my thinking mechanism. I wanted to experience what it was like being there near the altar, with a woman I love by my side. But there are so many things I do not grasp, one of them is the difference of romantic love from the contented love I felt from my family.

Home. Contentment. Ambition. Life. Love. Universal words. Complicated meanings.

It all changed when I met you.

The office: a place of beginnings, of stories encoded over a laptop placed immaculately over a black writing desk. Such a room was often associated with the typical routine activities of the editing board. I was the one who did the final checks, approved the research, wrote about stuff on people like you. If not the imaginary worlds and fantasies of non-existent heroes of some alternate universe, it's often the real life accounts of the upperclassmen whom I admittedly couldn't care less about. The curse of the idealist was that nothing about reality ever satisfies. I wanted to write about perfection, of adventure, of the rare kind of love I saw during Hiccup's wedding.

But it was quite impossible really. I didn't have any idea on what to write about something I've never experienced. They say imagination does wonders for people who are inexperienced, but if you didn't want to write about vomit and wanted to let the readers actually feel and learn something from what you wrote, then imagination is talking crap. Maybe some people are able to pull it off, but I'm more of a firsthand experience kind of writer.

I tried to look for inspiration instead. I listened to the cheesy Elton John song playing through the speakers placed on the corner of the wall. I stared at the abstract painting hanging to the left that had some sort of girl in a blue dress doing an oblation pose on a porch made of ice. I looked through the spines of the books placed on the shelf to the right that had a few (seemingly) romance titles. Nothing.

Then I remembered Hiccup and Astrid's wedding and sighed. Perhaps that's the closest thing I could associate to the kind of love I was planning to write about.

And when you came through that glass door, that's when I was proven wrong.

"Your article about my sister was erroneous!"

You slapped the magazine opened to page 26 hard on my really cool desk.

I ignored the sound of my staff apologizing for being unable to stop you. I was just stunned that, for the very first time, a person found something I wrote as 'erroneous'. You were the first.

"Miss Arendelle." I acknowledged you with brow raised.

"You had it all wrong." you accused me with sharp eyes, arms crossed saucily over your ruffled purple blouse. "Anna didn't 'throw herself at Hans Westergard' at all! He manipulated her!" You slam your palms against the table. "In fact, you shouldn't be writing about this in the first place!"

"I'm a journalist." I said matter-of-factly, challenging you with deadpanned eyes. "My beat is national politics, and I've had the misfortune of writing something about a prime minister's 13th son having a scandalous relationship with a diva's younger sister."

You gritted your teeth, "First of all, I am a Broadway artist, not a diva. Second, my sister was the victim!"

"She believed in love at first sight." I replied off-handedly. "She made herself the victim."

"You don't even know _half _of what happened between them you misogynist pig!" your words were filled with venom that it stung me.

I rose an eyebrow, "Excuse me?"

"Don't act so surprised Mr. Frost." you said icily, planting your hands on your hips. "You have a notorious reputation with the country's most influential women."

"Meaning?" I drawled out slowly.

"Ugh, you've written stories that practically defamed women. Feminists are always holding riots because of you."

I waited for you to explain further.

You groaned impatiently, "You wrote that article about Rapunzel Corona getting pregnant before marriage."

"Which was true, and she did marry the man who impregnated her."

"You destroyed her reputation as a youth advocate before she even got married!" you hissed angrily, slamming the table again with your small (yet strangely powerful) hands.

"Meh, she seems happy with Fitzherbert now." I shrugged. "And became a motivational speaker for young moms."

"You publicized the issue about Ariel Watersbrook running away from her

father because of a guy!"

"Because she did." I pointed out. "And my photographer caught her in the act of canoodling with her boyfriend in a public place. It's an occupational crime not to make a story out of it." I sat up from my chair and looked at you through my bangs. I really didn't have the time to deal with you then, because I was both physically tired from my daily work routine and the mental effort that came with my occassional brooding. "Besides, just like the story with Rapunzel, Ariel's father still ended up giving her and Erik Hamilton his blessing. I don't really see how that makes me enemy number one against the feminists."

"But you managed to cause a mighty public uproar because of publishing those scandalous stories!" you reasoned out, and I understood that you were equally exasperated with me as I was with you. "And I don't want this to happen to my sister."

"Miss Arendelle," I interrupted you, "You and I both know the consequences of being a public figure, right? _The Guardian Times _ doesn't publish anything that violates any privacy rights and has always been fair with our views." I pointed at the page of the magazine you threw at me to prove my point. "And if you read carefully in this column, I even got a statement from your sister admitting that she _did _throw herself at the minister's son."

"She didn't know what she was saying because she was emotional that time!" you practically roar. "Why are you being so difficult?"

"You basically storm into my office, was rude to my staff, and called me a mysognist pig to my face!" I barked, satisfied when my sudden anger caught you off guard. "And you ask why I was being difficult Miss Arendelle? I would have been more cooperative had you agreed to schedule an appointment with me under more civilized circumstances."

You blinked, pink lips opening and closing as if perplexed and unsure of what to say next. That vulnerable look on your face almost made me want to apologize for my yelling, but I had to stand my ground. I had pride to uphold as a journalist with integrity.

Plus, you gave me a mighty annoying headache.

"You better fix this!" you threatened me with narrowed eyes before turning your back and marching off towards the door in long strides until you were out of my sight.

You didn't even leave with an apology.

I slumped against my chair and let out a long exhale, closing my eyes as I reclined and stared at the ice-like chandelier suspended above me. Only then did it finally settle in that you, Elsa Arendelle, the most amazing Broadway actress who had just recently won a few notable international awards for her craft, had sponsored the making of two hospitals and an orphanage, had joined countless humanitarian missions across the globe, and was sister to movie actress Anna Arendelle, had just stepped into my office and threatened me.

And I was an Elsa Arendelle fan.

"You had a really long day Jack," I told myself in a humorless laugh. There goes my hopes of getting your autograph.

It took three days before I decided to write a follow up article on the issue concerning your sister and the Prime MInister's son, Hans Westergard. To be honest, I didn't want to look further into this particular issue since I wanted to invest more time in my first attempt at writing romance. But you did say that I had to make whatever it is right, and the only way I knew how to do that was to schedule another interview with Anna. I had to do this secretly of course.

So imagine my surprise when I met up with Anna in that French restaurant and found you sitting by her side with a glare meant especially for me. A masochistic side of me was actually flattered.

You were wearing an ink blue, sleeveless frock that made your shoulders look like a pair of sparkly pearls, and Anna was wearing something akin to a dark green, single sleeved dress that seemed to be the latest fashion trend that day. The freckles on your skin weren't as noticable on Anna's which looked adorable on her, and I noticed that the both of you had a thing for really complicated braids. Huh, sisters. The both of you were very beautiful women, and I felt like an extremely lucky guy to be graced with your presence.

I shook hands with your sister, offered to shake yours, then retracted my hand when you refused. I fought an amused smile as I took my seat across yours. We ordered food, made some small talk about menial stuff (well only Anna and I were talking. You were glaring daggers at me), and when all that was done, began the interview.

"Okay so, I asked you to make this appointment with me so that we could even out some stuff on th article we published in _The Guardian Times, _okay?" I clarified. "You have read the article, right?"

"Yeah," Anna replied in a forced chipper manner. "It did sound a little... weird when it came out. People are starting to look at me strangely now but I guess that's what it is with showbusiness." she shrugged. "People like putting their noses in celebrities' private lives. I've already gotten used to it."

You seemed offended by her statement as I heard you whisper, "What do you mean? It's _his _fault why your reputation's been ruined."

"No it isn't." Anna retorted firmly, her voice loud enough to turn a few curious heads in our direction. "Because Jack only wrote the truth about what happened. Yeah, it might have sounded like I was the girl who flung myself at some guy. But it was the truth. Jack didn't do anything wrong!"

"Why are you doing this Anna?!" You reprimanded her.

"Because I don't want people talking about how Hans tried to assault you and blame you for it!"

Anna stopped with a gasp, clamping a hand shut against her mouth as she looked at me with worry. With that you allowed a relived sigh to escape your lips as you followed her gaze at me, almost like you were pleading.

"You heard right, Mr. Frost." you said resignedly. "That was what _really _ happened.

You began narrating about the ill-fated relationship between your sister and that (and I quote) "bastard with the side-burns"". Anna really did initiate a relationship with Hans, which the guy candidly accept. They seemed like the perfect couple within the span of six months, but it turned out Westergard was using Anna to get to you because of your international influence. Anna might have been popular nationwide, but your reputation would boost his chances of getting a wider publicity. He wanted you to become his trophy wife, and at the unfortunate moment Anna discovers how he tried to seduce you, attack you, and failed to claim you because of your little sister's feistiness and your killer spirit, he seethes with revenge. His comeback was to destroy your reputation, but Anna had done something to save you from that fate.

She destroyed her own reputation to save you. She came to me, asked for an interview, and the next day people dubbed the nation's darling of the crowd as a politician's tramp.

Harsh.

"Now I'm asking you to please set this right." you tell me civilly, a hidden plea in your crystal blue eyes. "That story wasn't the complete truth. I don't care about my reputation being ruined. Just please set this right with Anna."

"Elsa, no." Anna scolded you.

"No, Anna. This is the right thing to do."

"Hans would just twist the story and people would start talking about this for a long time." Anna reasoned out, almost slapping the table with her other hand, a trait she probably shared with you. "Let it stay the way it is. This issue will die down eventually. As long as the press doesn't talk about a flaw in his reputation, he wouldn't bother us anymore, okay?"

You and Anna had all but forgotten me, silently sipping what was left of my drink as I stared at what seemed like a comically childish fight between sisters. Only when I coughed to my hand did you notice I was still there, chuckling at your antics. The both of you were adorable.

"You guys are adorable," I said, being honest with my thoughts. "But I'm afraid that, as a journalist, I'm only allowed to publish the truth. It's part of our duty to journalistic ethics or I'm a douchebag member of mainstream media."

For the first time since we personally met, you offered me a genuine smile.

I smiled back, fighting a blush on my cheeks. "Sorry Anna."

"Thank you," you told me.

Anna meant to argue further with you, but her manager had already called her, asking her to go to some studio to shoot some movie. It all seemed like she had forgotten what we were all talking about as she rushed out of the restaurant on barefoot while she scooped up her heels into her hands("_Do you have any idea what it's like to walk on those death stilletos?!_). The restaurant's staff's eyes followed her trail for a few moments before quietly resuming their duties. That left only you and me, staring at each other awkwardly as the night grew darker than it already was. We were one of the few ones left inside the restaurant, who were mostly married or engaged couples on dates.

_Awkward._

"Will she be fine on her own?" I asked you, breaking the silence.

"Kai is with her." you assured me. "He's the family escort. He'll be driving her there"

"Aah."

Silence.

"Well, I better be going as well." you said as you got up and took your purse, leaving a thick wad of bills on the table.

"No, please, the dinner was on me." I insisted, taking your hand and putting your money on your palm.

I thought I caught a blush on your cheeks. But I might as well have been imagining things.

"And, I'm sorry by the way," you said quickly. "I... I did act kind of brashly in your office, It was very unprofessional of me."

I waved you off with a well mannered snort, "Nah, I already forgave you for that. You were just being protective of your sister, which is very admirable by the way."

You shook your head modestly, "And you're not a mysoginist pig. I take it back. You really are a writer with integrity."

"A very flattering compliment coming from the wickedly talented Elsa Arendelle." I smirk, doing that charming smiley thing Snotlout (not his real name, just an insult me and Hiccup came up with) does with other girls.

I was hoping it didn't creep you out though, because the way Snotlout did it was creepy. But when you were batting your eyelashes bashfully and when an adorable pink blush dusted your cheeks, I knew I did something quite right.

Damn. You were really beautiful in person.

"Well, I'd like to have your agent's number in case I need to ask more questions on the issue at hand." I said formally, taking out my phone as I waited for you to hand me a busniess card of some sort or something. "I might hand over the story to one of my other writers though since I'll be covering another story on Corona's charter change this week."

"Ah yes of course," you fretted, as if you were snapped from some trance. I looked at you curiously when you took out your phone instead and showed me a contact number.

"That's mine." you said. "But if you're going to hand the story over to another writer, I'll just send you my agent's number instead."

I blinked. Did you just...

"Uhm, I... I would like to make amends with uh," you tucked a hair behind your ear, "With my behavior that day. Are you all right with dinner some other time?"

You were fidgeting. I guessed you were wondering if you'd worded your statement poorly, wondering if I was thinking that you were probably interested me when you aren't, wondering if I was probably interested in you or something, when you assume that I am not.

Or maybe I was just mirroring my thoughts on you with your invitation.

I smiled in the most casual way I could, "Dinner would be great."

You looked at me, returned the smile and nodded. When you said you were going, I insisted to drive you home. You refused at first, saying you'll just have one of your drivers pick you up. But I was one persistent guy, and I refused to leave a lady on her own when it was way past ten thirty in the evening.

Soon I found you in the passenger's seat of my car. It seemed like you belonged there, the fairness of your hair and skin lighting up the dark interior of the vehicle. I was content with the silence between us as a faint Mozart melody played on the radio.

"Do you enjoy being a journalist, Jack?" you asked me, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" I acknowledged you, keeping my eyes on the road. "Well, I enjoy being a writer. A journalist... hmmm it depends on what I'm writing about. But a job's a job. And I enjoy it most of the time."

I could feel you raising a brow in interest, "You write other stuff besides news and opinion articles?"

"I wrote a few novels under the pseudonym Jackson Overland." I told you, "But don't tell anyone."

"Wait, what..." you gasped. "_You _wrote _Dancing with Death _and _Immersion?!_ "

"Yeah."

"Those are my favorite books!" you nearly squealed at my ear, making me chuckle lightly. "The characters in those books were really deep. And the stories were really clever, the way you expressed the complexity of Rowan fighting with himself while he tried to keep his brother and sister safe from the people trying to kill him and from himself in Dancing with Death. And I've never read a book that looked into the value of life and death in such an in depth way in a story better than Immersion!"

I scratched my head with one hand, slightly embarassed with your compliments. "I'm glad you liked them."

"I mean, the emotions, the characters, the happenings in those stories..." you went on. "Although they were slightly coupled with a slight spark of fantasy, they felt so real."

"Because they are." I admitted, becoming solemn as I reminisced the days when I wrote those books."

"They are what?"

"They're real." I said. "Dancing with Death is about me and my family, when my father died. Our family was in a lot of debt and I had to be the breadwinner of the family. My mother was sick for a time, and I had to work a lot while I was studying. I didn't have time for a social life, and sometimes missed out on a lot of stuff in school because I tended to fall asleep in class due to exhaustion. The people whom my parents borrowed money from weren't very nice people and even threatened us a couple of times. It was because of them that my dad worked so hard 'til he was sick to death. I fell into depression, but I never told my family about it. Writing was my therapeutic release."

You were silent, so I took this chance to continue.

"Immersion is about when I was skating with my sister at a pond one winter. I didn't check the ice so imagine when my sister was frozen with panic when the ice slowly cracked beneath her. I managed to save her, but I fell in... well, only half of my body did anyway, because my sister was smart enough to pull at me and let go at the right moment. Half my body was paralyzed with hypothermia but I eventually recovered."

I let out a sigh.

"For a time I hated the cold because of it... but then I started to love the season again because that moment in cold waters made me want to live everyday like it was my last. I was thinking, 'what if I die tommorow?', 'what if I won't ever have another chance to tell my family I love them?', 'what if I can't reach my dreams today?', 'what should I do to make this short life seem worth while?"

This was when I looked at you, only to find you staring back at me with glossy eyes. I gave you a brief smile before turning my sight back at the road. It felt really nice that I had someone other than Hiccup to confide this to. And from you nonetheless.

"I'm sorry." I heard you whisper.

I smiled, "Don't be. If those stuff didn't happen to me, I wouldn't have been able to write two of your favorite books."

The rest of the ride was filled with the comfortable kind of silence. It took at least an hour before we reached your posh looking house. The sight of the large black lacquered gate made something drop in my gut as it opened to let the car in. I didn't bother to look at the landscaping of the area the way I usually did when I was given access to celebrity property. All I felt was a little disappointment on knowing I couldn't spend time with you longer. I guess this would be the only chance I get to spend time alone with a woman until our 'someday' dinner.

I was about to get out of the car to open the door for you when you grabbed the hand that was resting on the steering wheel.

"Wait, Jack..."

I didn't notice it, but... I think you meant to kiss my cheek when you leaned from across the seat and accidently planted your lips on mine. I knew it was an accident because you were blushing profusely while cupping your mouth then sputtering emarassed apologies later.

"I, I'm sorry for that... I was... I"

But I silenced you when I yanked you back to myself, and kissed you again. When you didn't move, I was scared that maybe I probably did the wrong thing, that I should stop what I was doing and apologize.

It was until you eased into the kiss that I felt the most peaceful for the first time in... in like forever. Your lips were gentle and shy and sensual, and just when I felt an animalistic urge to deepen the kiss, you pulled away with a coy smile, cupping my face in your hands.

"I prefer taking things slow, Jack Frost." you whispered, not meaning to sound sultry. "But I enjoyed this little talk we had."

I smiled, taking one of your hands and planting a soft kis on your knuckles before I left the car to open the door for you. Leading you to yout door strangely made me feel like Hiccup as he waited for Astrid while she walked down the aisle. It triggered something inside of my chest. It was painful, it was exciting, it was both in between.

You turned to me as we reached the door to your house, giving me a serene smile before you tiptoed to kiss me lightly on my cheek.

"I look forward to our dinner this Friday at _Collete's, _Mr. Frost."

I smirked in understanding. "As do I, Ms. Arendelle."

The moment I was a good distance away from the house, silently brooding in my car as the evening lights passed by me, I was struck with inspiration. It hit me hard like an arrow piercing through my chest. It made me laugh like an idiot at the sheer cliche feel of it all. It made me insult the me who was content with what I had now, and it made me encourage the me who was secretly, and now explicitly wanting for more.

I suddenly realize that cliches are the proof of the human's yearning to romanticize the simple things. But apparently, you don't get a say on how love is supposed to happen in your life. Hiccup had no say whether Astrid should intrude into his window of existence or not. It's just that, she was designed to be part of his life whether he liked it or not.

When I met you, I think I finally understood a part of it. Of how the simple things such as these could get complicated just by the mere thought of thinking about it.

I understood your love for Anna, and I understood my love for my friends and family.

What we both needed to understand was this chance, amidst the circumstances, for the 'more'.

The only choice really is to take this chance while it is here. If you weren't for me, then another would come. But right now, at the ripe age of twenty seven... I'm kind of hoping your're the one.

But ah... wishful thinking. I need more backbone than this.

At least I know what to write for that romance novel now.

... ... ...

A/N: Since I am suffering from severe writer's block for my stories Totentanz (currently sitting at 13 pages) and Child of WInter Solstice (currently sitting at mental pages), I decided to take a swing at another BtB oneshot.

This is slightly different in terms of style as compared to my previous oneshots, but I hope this one still made you guys happy. This was inspired by a picture my good friend peanutbutterandgarlicgirl drew about a brooding 27 year old and still-single Jack Frost. It turned out differently than how I originally planned to write it but... oh well. And this one is unbeta'd and rushed and all over the place so... *cries* sorry.

I hope you guys liked this one anyway. :)


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